


Voluntary Apnea

by ArchAngelCondom



Series: Got Dark Only To Shine [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Flashbacks, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, hurt not so much comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:39:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchAngelCondom/pseuds/ArchAngelCondom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was Stiles' senior year when he began to drown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voluntary Apnea

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic has quite a few triggers in them and I listed a lot of them in the tags but I will list each chapters individual triggers in the notes before the chapter
> 
> Triggers in Chapter One: Rape/Non-con, Panic Attacks, Self Harm
> 
> Also: Since I planned this out and started writing it way before season three was going to come out, it is not compatable with anything from season three. just FYI

Stiles' head was throbbing. Like, a hangover headache type of throbbing. Which made sense; he did go to the Jungle last night, after his fight with Derek. 

He made the mistake of opening his eyes. The light burned his retinas and resonated through his aching head. He flipped onto his stomach and pulled his pillow over his head, squeezing his eyes shut. As he laid there, other aches made themselves known. His wrists, his scalp, his neck, his ass. . . Wait, why-

 _Hands, hot, heavy, grasping at his skin, pulling, tugging, yanking, fingernails catching on the ridges of his body. Lips against his own,_ no, don’t want, _but they’re insistent and he can’t escape the palms on his face. His lethargic body tries to squirm away but gets pushed down._

Stiles ripped the sheets off quickly; he scrambled out of his bed, wanting to get away from them; the sick feeling heavy in the pit of his stomach. 

He realized he was naked. His eyes scoured his room. Clothes from last night were strewn around the floor. 

_He struggles, but his pants are pulled off, leaving rough scrapes down the inside of his thighs. A low groan; hands, hot, heavy, groping his ass, scratching fingernails, and suddenly, there are tears, but he can’t say anything._

Stiles could feel _him_ everywhere, inside him, skittering across the back of his neck, clawing his shoulders. He ripped at his skin, trying to get the feeling off himself. He felt filthy. His mouth watered with pre vomit saliva, his skin bled from the scratches _he_ had left; he gagged, and felt a shudder run up from the pit of his stomach.

He launched up, shaky legged, and trudged to the bathroom. He didn’t make it to the toilet before he puked, the bile burning his throat, the tears burning his eyes. He thought about cleaning it up, but realized he didn’t care. He just had to get clean, just get clean. He reached for the shower knob, turned it all the way to the "H". He didn’t let the stream warm up before he stepped into the flow of icy water. His muscles froze when he felt the bitter cold beat against his skin; it pimpled and a shiver ran through his body but he felt colder than the water, colder than ice, colder than he’d ever had before.

How the fuck had it happened? How the fuck had _he_ slipped something into his drink? Stiles hadn’t set it down, hadn’t taken his eyes off of it the whole night really. Being the son of a Sheriff he had heard about shit like this happening to people; overheard his dad talking about the cases. His dad had told him what he could do to prevent things like this from happening to him over and over. They’d been carved into his brain. This shouldn’t have happened to him. 

He vomited again.

The water began to warm, soon scalding his skin. His instinct to get away from the searing heat dimmed as he grabbed his soap and rubbed himself all over. Lathering and rinsing over and over again to erase the dirty feeling. To eradicate the feeling of _him_ still lingering from his memories. He could feel patches of skin, burning, turning raw as the scrubbing and heat began to show on his body. His filthy, used body.

Even when the water finally ran cold, he forced himself to stay in the shower, feeling the chill soothe his sores, feeling the ghosts of hands on his body, feeling the hate he’s so used to burying ooze it’s way around his body, wrapping him in a cloak of anger and disgust. 

The anger was a cold, suffocating brand of hate. Acting as a vacuum that sucked any happiness or positivity from him, almost as if there was a dementor waiting for him outside of his shower curtain. 

Stiles avoided looking at his reflection in the mirror when he finally left the bathroom, stumbling back into his bedroom, an almost soothing numb filling his body. He didn't want to look at himself. He wasn’t sure if he can. 

He fell backwards onto his bed, feeling jerky and disconnected. He was naked, but it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing really mattered. Not the sick in his stomach, not the hands crawling up his spine, not the bruises in his ass, on his skin, in his heart.

No, that was a lie. Something did matter. Someone.

_Derek_

Stiles swallowed hard to fight the bile rising to the back of his throat again. Jesus, what was he supposed to tell Derek? There was no way Derek wouldn’t know that something happened. He’d probably be able to smell something before he even entered Stiles’ room. Even if he could cover up the stench well enough to not even be detected by his werewolf nose, Derek would immediately notice something was wrong with Stiles. There was no way he could act like he normally would. Not when he couldn’t even get his hands to stop shaking. 

No, no he doesn’t need to try to hide what happened from Derek. He would understand. He would if Stiles could just explain. If he could just tell him that someone slipped something into his drink. That he couldn’t stop what happened. That he was-

He couldn’t even say it in his head, how the hell could he say it out loud. 

Stiles slammed his hands down on the mattress as a pained whine came from the back of his throat. He forced his eyes shut to fight against the stinging tears that were threatening to fall once again. 

The sheets began to burn like coals against his skin and a buzzing was causing him to vibrate with the need to get up. His mind screaming for him to get out of his room. His chest tightened and it got harder and harder to breathe. 

Finally he gave in; quickly pulling on a pair of boxers and pajama pants before rushing out of his room. 

Each step he took away from his room took some of the weight off of his chest and by the time he reached the living room downstairs he felt like he could finally breathe properly again. 

He fell face first onto the couch, taking a few deep breaths before rolling onto his side and bringing his knees up closer to his chest so his feet could fit onto it as well. He grabbed the remote off of the coffee table and turned the TV on. He channel surfed for a while before settling on a Star Trek: The Next Generation marathon. And eventually he felt himself nodding off; and let sleep consume him. 

 

*

 

Stiles was startled out of his sleep by a large crash from upstairs, followed by loud footsteps.

He glanced over at the clock on one of the table by the armrests of the couch. His dad would already be at work by now, so who was upstairs?

 _Derek_

“Fuck” Stiles whispered as he pushed himself up into a sitting position. 

Derek couldn’t be here. He wasn’t supposed to climb through his window into his room to undoubtedly be hit by the scent of what had happened in there. Stiles was going to work out a plan, figure out a way to tell Derek himself. Derek wasn’t supposed to be here, this wasn’t supposed to happen this way. 

Panic welled up inside Stiles’ chest as he stood up. He had to talk to Derek. He had to explain what was going on. He started to walk over to the stairs on shaky legs when Derek came barreling down. His face pinched up in anger, rage in his eyes. 

“What the hell, Stiles?” His voice was controlled. Not even raised, and that was probably the most frightening thing.

“Derek please- _please_ , just let me explain.” Stiles begged, voice cracking, a lump choking his throat. He could feel his heartbeat speed up as his panic rose, inhaling sharply, jaw clenching, trying to catch a whimper. 

“Explain what?” Derek growled, nostrils flaring as he scented Stiles, “Why your room smells like sex and a stranger? Why _you_ smell like sex and a stranger? It's still there, you know, under the scent of your soap. It’s not something you can just wash off,” his eyes flashed red for a moment, causing Stiles to flinch backwards before they returned to their normal hazel. 

“D-Derek I-I-” Stiles stuttered, his jaw quivering as he tried to think past the self hate and the rising sense of disquiet that was causing the churning in his stomach and the erratic beating of his heart.

“Shut up, Stiles.” Derek snarled, his eyes flashing red, a dangerous rumble building in his throat, his fists clenching as his anger boiled; the more he kept smelling that _fucking_ stench, that scent of another male’s, another _man’s_ cum. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you didn’t _fuck_ ,” the word was spat through a sneer, “another person last night.”

Stiles tried to meet his eyes, tried to explain, tried to spit something out. “D-derek I didn’t- It's n-not-” he stuttered before he bit his bottom lip and squeezed his eyes shut, a few tears leaking from his eyelids, as he felt the weight of Derek’s anger, beat against the guilt he already felt.

“That’s what I thought.” Derek backed away, and turned towards the front door. He paused when his hand grabbed the handle. “I don’t think i have to tell you to stop coming around” he said, bitterness laced in his toned. 

The door slammed behind him. 

Stiles collapsed onto the floor pulling his knees up to his chest, gasping for breath. It felt like he could no longer breathe; like his lungs were collapsing inside of his chest. He brought his shaking hands up and wrapped them around his legs, squeezing, and let his fingernails dig into the flesh on them, using the sharp dots of pain as an attempt to forget. He hacked, his chest ripping as he fought the urge to once again cough up bile. The panic he’d restrained poured into his veins, adrenaline spiking, then dropping as he just finally gave up. 

Tears streamed down his face as memories from the night he didn’t want to remember flashed across his mind. 

_The weight pinned him to the mattress, the hands, rough, pinched at spots that didn’t turn him on. He was seeking his own sick pleasure, scratching the back of his neck, drawing blood. Lips that felt sloppy and slick speckled his back, leaving traces of saliva. Something rough between his legs and Stiles screamed into the pillow, praying, praying Scott, his father, his Derek, anyone would show up, would save him. He kicked his legs, a husky sexed voice chuckled, fingers running up the back of his legs-_

Stiles felt like screaming, but no sounds could escape his throat, save for one choked sob or two. 

He wanted Derek. He wanted Derek to climb back through the window and wrap his arms around Stiles. He wanted Derek to rub his back, to kiss every hidden bruise, to take away every memory, replace them with something better. He wanted Derek to press his lips to his forehead and whisper "It’ll be alright. I’m here, we _will_ work through this”. 

Derek wasn’t going to be coming back.

 

*

 

When Stiles calmed himself down he walked into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water. He’d actually prefer something much, much, stronger but he knew his dad was going to get off of work soon and coming home to a drunken Stiles would not make for a happy father. Plus, Stiles was a lot more loose lipped when intoxicated. He’d let something slip eventually. 

“Stiles?” The boy jumped, knocked over the empty glass, and quickly turned around, startled by his father’s intrusion. He hadn’t even heard him come home. He felt scared, felt like someone was watching him, someone was creeping in on him.

“I thought you were going out with Derek tonight.” The Sheriff’s eyebrows narrowed. His son instantly deflated, his large brown eyes skittering to the corners of his room like he was looking for something. 

“You can’t really go out with someone you’re not dating anymore.” Stiles mumbled. 

“Not dating anymore,” his dad mouthed, looking surprised, “What happened? Do I need to go pay him a visit?” he asked jokingly serious and reached for the gun resting in its holster. 

He tried to smile, because it was nice to have his dad make an effort, nice to know at least there was one person who cared. Even if Stiles didn’t deserve it. But, he couldn’t bring himself to even mock a grimace. He just didn’t have the effort, the energy in him. 

“No, no guns are necessary. It’s not, I-” He took a deep breath in, mouth tasting bad with the truth about to echo through his head, as it had been all day since Derek had found out. “It’s my fault, I did something. It was stupid but it hurt him, so he left. I feel like shit about it but I can’t do anything about it,” he shrugged and tried to act nonchalant but he knew he failed. His hands were still shaking, probably not noticeably to his father but to him it felt like the tremors were tearing him apart. 

Mr. Stilinski stepped forward and tried to pull his son into a hug, but, even though he tried not to, Stiles cringed away from him. 

“If you need to talk about it, I’m here.” He squeezed Stiles’ shoulder, trying to ignore a small glint of fear growing in his son’s eyes as he got closer. 

“Thanks Dad but, I’m just going to continue watching the Star Trek marathon and try to forget for a bit,” Stiles replied. 

His dad frowned, tried to think of something to say, something to help, but he could see a shadow haunting Stiles’s eyes. His son got smaller and smaller in the chair, inspecting his father, like he was eyeing a wild animal, like Mr. Stilinski was going to attack him. It put him at a loss for words.

Stiles knew he was upsetting his father, could see the confusion and concern in his eyes, but he couldn’t shake the feeling like it didn’t matter. He just felt numb and a little helpless, like nothing he could say, nothing he could do would make any difference. 

He shrugged at Mr. Stilinski, stood the cup up, and left the kitchen. He didn’t want to go to his room, where _it_ had happened, but he also didn’t want to stay down there, where his dad’s eyes could follow him so closely, could pick out every detail of Stiles’s body. Like he was a book and the words describing what he had been up to were written on his skin. Stiles always hated that analyzing look, like his dad could see more than what was there. But now it terrifies him. He’s not really sure if he’d be able to handle his dad knowing what had happened. 

Sighing, Stiles wandered into the hall and pulled one of the spare blankets out of the closet, dragging it behind him as he went back into the living room. He unpaused the TV and laid down on the couch, wrapping himself in the blanket. His dad can’t read him if he can’t see him, right?

Stiles forced himself to focus on the marathon on the TV, not wanting to think about anything, though every once in awhile he could feel the ghost of hands and a mouth that made his skin crawl.

He wasn’t sure how, but eventually he fell asleep.

 

*

 

In seventeen years, he’d never been so quiet in school, never been so passive, not even after his mom. He just didn’t care. He couldn’t care. Every time he brought up an emotion, he felt a flash of fear so strong, it choked him, like emotion was a disease and he could avoid infection if he just stopped caring about everything. It made him tired, to be so cold, but it was better than feeling. 

It would have been a relief to know Scott was in his chemistry class, if feeling was an option, but it was probably a good thing emotions were off limit. Scott was not waiting for him at their table, like he usually was. Instead, he was sitting next to Danny, lab partner had been kicked to Scott’s usual seat. 

Stiles gave Scott a ‘ _what the hell?_ ’ look but he just narrowed his eyes and drilled his gaze into the table. It made Stiles pause, made his already cold body freeze because what the fuck? What had he done now? He almost went over, almost tried to fix it, but then remembered that Scott had better things to do than to be friends with a scrawny pale human. 

“It would seem that Mr. McCall has requested a change in lab partners.” Mr. Harris’s voice, soft and vile, hissed near his ear. “I’m surprised it took him this long, to be honest with you, Mr. Stilinski. Now, sit down.”

Stiles dropped his stuff down on the table He ground his teeth together, because he was angry. A new feeling, a good feeling, because it wasn’t something that really needed a lot of focus. He yanked out his phone, opened a new message; putting Scott as the recipient 

**To: Scott  
~Dude what the hell?**

**From: Scott  
~Derek told us that we couldn’t be around you anymore**

Stiles’s heart stuttered. Just seeing the name, just thinking it in his head, brought feelings, brought a deep aching empty feeling that made him queasy. But it also brought a sense of relief, like he’d been in pain and just the name could cure it. And then the actual meaning of the sentence forced it’s way past Stiles’s thoughts. Derek wouldn’t, would he?

 **To: Scott  
** **~Please tell me he didn’t  
** **~Tell me that this is one giant joke**  
 **~Scott please**

**From: Scott  
~I’m sorry Stiles**

**To: Scott  
~Did he tell you why?**

Scott didn’t reply. It was enough of an answer.

His head thunked on the table. The pain brought a delicious sense of feeling without actual emotions and he was surprised to find a certain anxiety building up in his chest. He took deep shuddering breaths to calm himself down. With a shallow sense of distance, he realized it was a brewing panic attack, like the ones he used to have after his mom.

Why did everyone always leave him? Why did he always drive people away from him? 

He could barely pay attention to the lesson. He wrote down notes as Harris lectured but none of it stuck in his head. He didn’t fucking care. He didn’t think some public school bullshit chemistry class was ever going to help in his life, like he ever going use it. He saw through the lies, through to the real truth, that the world was angry and violent and fuck it if he was going to play the stupid game again. In five minutes, he let the numbness swallow his anger. To hell with it all. 

When class ended, he watched Scott nearly trip on his rush out the door, trying to avoid any contact with him. Stiles packed up his stuff and trudged towards his next class, weary.

The rest of the day dragged by. Pack members he’d previously sat by switched seats, leaving him feeling empty when he should have been hurt or upset. All of them avoided him religiously, like he was diseased. 

He didn’t even bother going into the lunchroom. He just went to the library and sat against the wall, doodling on his wrists with a pen. The pen had been out of ink, but he was kinda fond of the way it made light pink scratches against his pale skin. Fond of the stinging sensation they brought on. Almost like he’d been wrestling with Derek, those light playful scuffles where Derek finally had to wolf out a little to pin him down for a kiss. 

Different scratches came to mind causing Stiles to shudder, dropping the pen just as the bell rang. He stood, rubbing his arms, shoulders, torso, feeling those ghost hands again, and packed his stuff, heading to finish the horrible day in which not feeling was better than anything else. 

The final bell rang, dismissing everyone and Stiles lugged himself to his locker. Like hell was he going to drag the books he’d never need back to his house. 

On the way out, he caught Scott watching him, the brown eyes narrowed in distrust and concern. The minute Stiles met his eyes, Scott looked down and away, just as Erica sidled up to him and rested an arm on his shoulder, openly glaring at Stiles. He silently twisted his face into a snarl and hiked to his jeep. Fuck them. He drove home, blasting some heavy metal he’d found on the radio and stormed into his house, to the kitchen, throwing his school stuff on the floor. He ripped his phone out of his pocket and crouched under the sink, his back against the cupboard, his jaw clenching.

 

**To: Derek  
~What the hell Derek? You can’t do this**

**From: Derek  
~Do what Stiles?**

**To: Derek  
~Tell my friends that they can’t be around me anymore**

**From: Derek  
~They made their choice**

**To: Derek  
~What the hell does that mean**

**From: Derek  
** **~I gave them a choice. The pack or you. They chose the pack.  
~Find new friends Stiles **

Stiles dialed Derek’s number and pressed the phone to his ear with shaking hands. It rang a few times before being sent to voicemail. 

“Derek, please don’t do this, _please_. Just let me explain, let me tell you what happened.” he hated how wrecked and desperate he sounded. He hated having to beg. But he would do anything just to get Derek to understand.

“It’s not my fault” He added in a broken whisper, before hanging up.

He clenched his eyes shut and held his phone to his lips. Waiting for a call back, a text, anything. He jumped when his phone did vibrate, signalling a text. He quickly unlocked his phone and opened the message

**From: Derek:  
** **~There isn’t anything to explain, Stiles.  
 **~Don’t call me again  
****

He chucked his phone across the room, it hit the wall with a satisfying crack, and he buried his face in his hands, collapsing against the wall in a ball of misery. He doesn’t know why he expected a different response. 

What happened to not feeling anything today? All he felt was pain and weeping, violent, self hate. It shuddered through him, making him clench his fists on his head and shiver. He felt like destroying something, anything, like he destroyed his life, like he destroyed his relationship. Stiles screamed, his voice cracking, his knuckles turning white.

He lashed out and struck one of the cupboard doors with his fist, catching one of the sharper ridges of the wood with his knuckles. He hissed as he felt pang of pain. He also felt some of the rage and hatred sink away, replaced with a numb feeling. He looked at his hand, watched as blood slowly trickled out of the small cut that the wood left on his knuckles. 

He pushed himself to his feet, turned towards the cup they kept a few random utensils in on counter and grabbed the scissors out of it. He rolled up one of his sleeves and pressed one of the blades against his arm and dragged it across his skin. Slowly he let out a breath as the rest of his anger and self hate flow out of him, being replaced by a blessed numbness. 

He washed the blood off of scissors in the sink and put them back in the cup before going up to his bathroom to bandage the cut.


End file.
